"In the time of my youth one of the cleverest and most agreeable
women in Europe was Madame de Salis--the Countess de Salis--who had
been in her youth a Miss Foster, daughter of the Irish Bishop of
Kilmore. As a girl she had been most beautiful and the darling of
her parents' hearts, but she married against their will with the
Count de Salis. He was a Swiss Count, but he took her, not to
Switzerland, but to Florence, where he hired a villa at
Bellosguardo. There the life of Madame de Salis was a most
miserable one: she had many children, but her husband, who cut her
off from all communication with her friends, was exceedingly unkind
to her. She was married to him for several years, and then she was
mercifully released by his death. It was impossible for her to
pretend to be sorry, and she did not pretend it: she hailed it as
the greatest mercy that could have befallen her.[186]
"Madame de Salis went back to Ireland, where her parents, the old
Bishop of Kilmore and Mrs. Foster, were still alive, and welcomed
her with rapture. But she had left them a radiant, beautiful,
animated girl; she returned to them a haggard, weird, worn woman,
with that fixed look of anguish which only the most chronic
suffering can leave. And what was worst was that her health had
completely given way: she never slept, she never seemed able to
rest, she had no repose day or night: she became seriously ill.
"All the best advice that could be procured was hers. There was a
great consultation of doctors upon her case, and after it had taken
place, the doctors came to the Bishop and said, 'The case of Madame
de Salis is an extraordinary one; it is a most peculiar, but still
a known form of hypochondria. She cannot rest because she always
sees before her--not the horrible phantom which made her married
life so miserable, but the room which was the scene of her
suffering. And she never will rest; the image is, as it were,
branded into her brain, and cannot be eradicated. There is only one
remedy, and it is a very desperate one. It will probably kill her,
she will probably sink under it, but it may have happy results.
However, it is the only chance of saving her. It is that she should
see the real room again. She can never get rid of its image: it is
engraven upon her brain for life. The only chance is for her to
connect it with something else.' When Madame de Salis was told
this, she said that her returning to Florence was impossible,
absolutely impossible. 'At any rate,' she said, 'I could not go
unless my younger sister, Miss Foster, might go with me; then
possibly I might think of it.' But to this Dr. and Mrs. Foster
would not consent. The happiness of their lives seemed to have been
extinguished when their elder daughter married Count de Salis, and
if their beautiful younger daughter went abroad, perhaps she also
would marry a foreigner, and then what good would their lives do
them? However, Madame de Salis grew daily worse; her life was
evidently at stake, and at last her parents said, 'Well, if you
will make us a solemn promise that you will never, under any
circumstances whatever, consent to your sister's marrying a
foreigner, she shall go with you;' and she went.
"Madame de Salis and Miss Foster went to Florence. They rented the
villa at Bellosguardo which had been the scene of the terrible
tragedy of Madame de Salis's married life. As they entered the
fatal room, Madame de Salis fell down insensible upon the
threshold. When she came to herself, she passed from one terrible
convulsion into another: she had a brain fever: she struggled for
weeks between life and death. But nature is strong, and when she
did rally, the opinion of the Irish doctors was justified. Instead
of the terrible companion of her former life and the constant dread
in which she lived, she had the companionship of her beautiful,
gentle, affectionate sister, who watched over her with unspeakable
tenderness, who anticipated her every wish.... The room was
associated with something else! Gradually, very gradually, Madame
de Salis dawned back into active life. She began to feel her former
interest in art; in time she was able to go and paint in the
galleries, and in time, when her recovery became known, many of
those who had never dared to show their sympathy with her during
her earlier sojourn at Florence, but who had pitied her intensely,
hastened to visit her; and gradually, as with returning health her
brilliant conversational powers came back, and her extraordinary
gift of repartee was restored, her salon became the most
_recherché_ and the most attractive in Florence.
"Chief of all its attractions was the lovely Miss Foster. When,
however, Madame de Salis saw that any one especially was paying her
sister attentions, she took an opportunity of alienating them, or,
if there seemed to be anything really serious, she expressed to the
individual her regret that she was unable to receive him any more.
But at last there was an occasion on which Madame de Salis felt
that more stringent action was called for. When a young Count
Mastai, in the Guardia Nobile, not only felt, but showed the most
unbounded devotion to Miss Foster, Madame de Salis did more than
express to him her regret that untoward family circumstances
prevented her having the pleasure of seeing him again; she let her
villa at Bellosguardo, she packed up her things, and she took her
sister with her to Rome.
"The reputation of the two sisters had preceded them, and when it
became known that the Madame de Salis who had had so romantic a
history was come to Rome with her beautiful younger sister, all
that was most intellectual and all that was most remarkable in the
old Papal capital gathered around them. But now the scene had
changed. It was no longer Madame de Salis who was the invalid. Miss
Foster grew pale and languid and unable to occupy herself, and
gradually she became so pale and so changed, and the cause of it
was so evident, that Madame de Salis felt that she must choose
between two alternatives: she must either break her word to her
parents and save the life of her sister, or she must keep her
promise to her parents and see her sister sink into the grave.
"And she decided on the former course. She wrote two letters--one
letter to Count Mastai, telling him that he might come back and see
her sister again, and the other letter to the Bishop of Kilmore and
Mrs. Foster. She said to her parents that she knew they measured a
foreign marriage by her own dreadful life with Count de Salis: that
in Count Mastai they must imagine the exact opposite of Count de
Salis: that he was honourable, noble, chivalrous, generous,
disinterested--in fact, that had she to seek through the whole
world the person to whom with the greatest confidence she could
commit her sister's happiness, she could not do otherwise than
choose Count Mastai. This letter she sent too late to have the
refusal which she knew it would bring. Count Mastai flew to the
feet of the beautiful Miss Foster, and was accepted at once. The
wedding-day was fixed, the wedding-dress was made, the
wedding-feast was prepared.[187]
"When the day came, all the friends of Madame de Salis collected in
the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, where the marriage was to
take place. According to the custom of brides in Rome, Miss Foster,
accompanied by Madame de Salis, came first to the altar and waited
for the bridegroom. He never came--he never came at all--he never,
never, never was heard of again. And that is the end of the first
part of the story.
* * * * *
"The second part of the story is quite different. It was the time
of the great famine and pestilence in the Basilicata. The misery
was most intense, hundreds perished daily everywhere. Every one who
could get away did; those who could went to Switzerland, others
went to Sicily; bishops abandoned their dioceses, priests abandoned
their flocks: there was a general stampede.
"But in that terrible time, as in all seasons of great national
suffering, there were instances of extraordinary devotion and
heroism. There was one young bishop of a Neapolitan diocese, who
was absent in Switzerland at the time, who came back like San Carlo
Borromeo over the Alps, who sold his library for the poor, who sold
his carriages, who sold at last even his episcopal ring, who walked
day and night in the hospitals, and by whose personal devotion many
lives were saved, while thousands were cheered and encouraged by
his example. The consequence was, that when the famine and the
pestilence in the Basilicata passed away, at an early age--at a
much earlier age than is usual--that young bishop was made a
cardinal.
* * * * *
"The third part of the story is again quite different. It was when
Pope Gregory XVI. lay upon his deathbed. There was the greatest
possible difficulty about who should be his successor; one member
of the Sacred College was too old, another was too young, another
was too much bound up with the princely families: there seemed to
be no one. The person who was of most influence at that time was
Count Rossi, the French Ambassador, and he was very anxious for a
liberal Pope, for some one who would carry out his own liberal
views. One day as he was walking pensively, filled with anxieties,
down the Corso, there passed by in a carriage that young bishop of
the Basilicata, once Bishop of Imola, now Archbishop of Spoleto,
who had been so distinguished during the famine. And when Count
Rossi saw him, he felt _that_ is the man--_that_ is the man who
would further my ideas and carry out my views. And by the wonderful
influence of Count Rossi on separate individuals, and by his
extraordinary powers of combination in bringing the mind of one
person to bear upon another, that person was chosen Pope. And on
the day on which he mounted the Papal throne as Pius IX., he
revealed that he was the person who, as Count Mastai Ferretti in
the Guardia Nobile, had been engaged to be married to the beautiful
Miss Foster. He had belonged to a Jesuit family: he had been
summoned on a Jesuit mission from which no one can shrink: his
value to the Church had been estimated: he was sent off to the West
Indies: letters were intercepted, and he was induced to believe
that Miss Foster had ceased to care about him: he was persuaded to
take Orders; he became bishop in the Basilicata, Bishop of Imola,
Archbishop of Spoleto, Pope of Rome--and Miss Foster lived to know
it.
* * * * *
"'Now,' said Dr. Hawtrey, 'if you ever tell that story, recollect
to say that it is no mere story I have heard; it is part of my own
life. Madame de Salis and her sister were my relations, and I was
most intimate with them. I was there when Madame de Salis made her
miserable marriage; I was there when she came back so terribly
changed. I shared in the consultations as to whether her sister
should go with her: I was with Dr. and Mrs. Foster when they
received the letter about Count Mastai: I was there when they heard
of the disappearance of the mysterious bridegroom: and I have lived
to think of him as Pope.'"
I am surprised to find no letters recording the long and happy visit
which I made during the latter part of April 1860 to Chequers, the
beautiful old house of Lady Frankland Russell, to whom I had been
introduced by Lady Sheffield, who was her cousin. With this most
interesting old lady I made great friends and received the greatest
kindness from her. Owing to the marriage of Sir John Russell of Chequers
with Mrs. Rich, youngest daughter of Cromwell, the house was perfectly
full of Cromwell relics, and in its grand old gallery hung portraits of
the Protector, his mother, brother, his four daughters, two sons-in-law,
secretary, &c. Here, also, enclosed in a cabinet, was a very awful mask
taken from Cromwell's face after death, which Lady Frankland used to
uncover with great solemnity. In the garden was a wonderful wych elm,
said to have been planted by King Stephen, and behind rose the Chiltern
Hills, the most beautiful point of which--Velvet Lawn, covered with
indigenous box--was in the immediate neighbourhood.
All through the summer of 1860 we were occupied in considering our new
home. We sent for all the London agents' lists of places to be let or
sold south of the Humber, and many of these, in Kent, Surrey, Berks,
Bucks, Oxfordshire, Hampshire, Hertfordshire, I went to see, either with
or without my mother. If she were not with me, I wrote to her long
accounts, always concluding with saying, "They are not like Holmhurst,
not in the least like Holmhurst,"--Holmhurst being the ideal place in
the unwritten novels which my mother and I had been accustomed to
narrate to each other in our long journeys abroad. My being difficult to
satisfy gave the aunts an unusual handle for abuse, and plentifully did
they bestow it upon me. "What can it signify whether you have a view or
not? No one but you would care to waste your time in always looking out
of the window," &c., &c. Especially was indignation roused by my
refusing to consider an old house which the Stanleys were determined
upon our taking in Oxfordshire,[188] and which was to be had very cheap
because no servants could be persuaded to stay there on account of a
frightful apparition which was supposed to haunt it. At last we almost
despaired of finding any place to suit us, and determined to take the
farm of Belhurst at Hurstmonceaux to put our furniture in, and to go
abroad till quite a different set of places were to be disposed of. Just
then a neighbour sent us a Hastings paper with a very humble
advertisement marked, "At Ore, a house, with thirty-six acres of land,
to be let or sold." "What a horrible place this must be," I said, "for
which they cannot find one word of description;" for the very ugliest
places we had seen had often been described in the advertisements as
"picturesque manorial residences," "beautiful villas with hanging
woods," &c. But my mother rightly thought that the very simple
description was perhaps in itself a reason why we should see it, and
after breakfast we set off in the little carriage. It was a drive of
about fourteen miles. Long before we could arrive at Ore, we passed
under a grey wall overhung by trees. "It looks almost as if there might
be a Holmhurst inside that wall," I said. Then we reached a gate between
two clipped yew-trees, and a board announced, "This house is to be let
or sold." We drove in. It was a lovely day. An arched gateway was open
towards the garden, showing a terrace, vases of scarlet geraniums, and a
background of blue sea. My mother and I clasped each other's hands and
simultaneously exclaimed--"This is Holmhurst!"
The house was let then, and we were refused permission to see the
inside, but my mother bought the property at once: she was as sure as I
was that we should never like any other place as well.
We found that the name of the place was Little Ridge. There were six
places called Ridge in the neighbourhood, and it was very desirable to
change the name, to prevent confusion at the post-office and elsewhere.
Could we call it anything but Holmhurst? Afterwards we discovered that
Holmhurst meant an ilex wood, and our great tree is an ilex.
On September 24 my mother left Lime. The day before was Sunday, and very
sad--so many tearful farewells, so many poor women crying in the
churchyard as we passed through. I stayed at Lime to pack up and arrange
everything. On October 6, in the gloaming of the autumn evening, while
the sunlight was streaming through the diminishing leaves of the old
abele trees, and throwing long shadows upon the green lawn and bright
flower-beds, we took a last farewell of our dear Hurstmonceaux home.
Lea delivered up the keys, and we walked away (to the Rectory) up the
drive, our drive no longer.
_To_ MY MOTHER.
"_Holmhurst, Oct. 8, 1860._--This morning we left Hurstmonceaux
Rectory directly after breakfast, good old Dr. Wellesley quite
affected, and Harriet Duly, and even begging Mrs. Havendon, crying
bitterly on taking leave of Lea. We met a smart carriage with two
white horses going to fetch the Arkcolls, who made a triumphal
entry to Lime just after our departure. Winchester drove us, in
order to bring back the horse--John and Romo (the dog) on the box:
Lea and I with Julietta (the cat) and her kitten inside, and no end
of provisions under the seats. We stopped first at Mrs. Taylor's
farm, and she gave Lea a new loaf and some cheese to begin
housekeeping with, and me some excellent cakes. Lea thought the
drive charming. I walked up all the hills and we arrived about one
o'clock. It was impossible to enter the gates on account of the
waggons of the outgoing tenants, but Joe and Margaret Cornford from
the lodge hailed us with the joyful news that they had themselves
departed a few hours before."
"_Oct. 9._--We began work at six, a lovely morning, and the view
exquisite as I opened my window, the oak-trees with which the
meadows are studded casting long shadows on the grass, the little
pond glittering in the sun, and the grey castle rising against the
softest blue sea beyond. John is awed by the magnitude of the
grounds.... Julietta cries to go home, and would certainly set off,
if it were not for little black pussy. I think the winding walks
and obscure paths are enchanting, and the fir-woods are really
large enough for you to 'inhale the turpentine air' as at
Bournemouth."
[Illustration: THE ABELES, LIME.]
My mother came to Holmhurst in about ten days, but not to stay, as we
had arranged to break the transition between our two homes by spending
the winter at Mentone. We took the route to the south by Orleans (whence
I made a most interesting excursion to Notre Dame de Clery), Bourges,
and then lingered at Oranges, Avignon, &c. I have always looked back
upon the earlier part of this journey with remorse, as one in which I
took my mother a longer way, in cold weather, simply to gratify my own
wishes.
The dear mother, however, was very well, and this winter was therefore
perhaps the happiest of the many we have spent abroad. Mentone consisted
then only of the old town on a promontory above the sea, ending in a
little island-tower, and clambering up the sides of the hill to the
castle and cemetery. On either side were a very few villas scattered
amid the olive and orange groves. In one of these,[189] above the
terrace which led from the eastern gate of the town to the little chapel
of St. Anne, we rented the first floor. On the ground floor lived our
worthy landlord, M. Trenca, and his Swiss wife, with whom we made much
acquaintance. In the neighbouring villas also we had many friends, and
often gave little parties,--for the tiny society was most simple and
easily pleased. We all enjoyed Mentone, where we had no winter, and
breakfasted with windows wide open at Christmas. Our old servants, Lea
and John, amused themselves by collecting roots of anemones and other
plants; I drew, and sought materials for my little book "A Winter at
Mentone;" and my mother was always gay and happy, betaking herself every
morning with her camp-stool to draw in some sheltered nook, and
returning proud of having discovered some new pathlet, or some fresh
bank of rare flowers in the olive groves; and in the afternoons often
going to sit with and read or sing to some of the invalid visitors.
[Illustration: MENTONE.[190]]